“You’re sure? You certainly don’t have to.”
“No big deal.”
She went home, found her floppy hat and sunglasses, and managed to get to downtown Dry Creek without getting lost. There was a parking space in front of the coffee shop. Instead of going through the front entrance, she slipped through the alley and pounded on the back door.
Laney answered, took one look at Gina’s getup, and rolled her eyes. “No one’s gonna see ya in the kitchen, girl.”
“I had to get here first.” She squeezed past Laney’s ample bosom and came inside. “You’re welcome.”
She looked around the small kitchen, which was hot as hell. It was a far cry from the gleaming stainless-steel restaurant kitchens of her chef friends. Absent the overwhelming smell of cooking oil, it was spick-and-span, she’d give it that.
“Where’s the menu and my mise en place?”
Laney found one of the restaurant’s greasy menus and shoved it in Gina’s hand. “I don’t know what that last thing is.”
Gina stared down at the menu. “Not this. What are we making for the luncheon?”
“Everything in there.” Laney nudged her head at the menu.
Gina blinked her eyes a few times, trying to understand. “Are you saying this isn’t prix fixe?”
“Now why would we do that? Not everybody likes the same thing.”
“So these thirty-eight guests can order anything in here?” She shook the menu, which easily weighed two pounds, in Laney’s face.
Laney put her hands on her hips and stared down her nose at Gina. “Just like everyone else in the restaurant.”
“Oh my God.” Gina rushed to the order window and peeked into the dining room. There were a few diners mopping up the last of their eggs. “Who cooked for them?”
“Jimmy Ray did. But I sent him home before he collapsed and made everyone else sick.”
Just to make sure she wasn’t mistaken, Gina’s eyes moved to the front door where the sign still saidopen. “You’re not closing for this lunch, are you?”
“Pfft, you may be a high-ass rich girl from the city, but I’ve got bills to pay. Hell no, we’re not closing for lunch.”
Gina squeezed the bridge of her nose. “Laney, do you expect me to pick up where Jimmy Ray left off?” Again she waved the menu in Laney’s face. “I don’t even know his recipes.”
“JoJo and I will help you.”
Gina pivoted around to find a guy missing his front tooth who had more tattoos than all the inmates in San Quentin put together. He was in a white apron, grinning. She assumed he was JoJo.
What had she gotten herself into?
She took off her ridiculous disguise, found another apron hanging from a pegboard near the deep fryers, and quickly put it on. She scooped her hair up and twisted it on top of her head in a knot.
Laney handed her a hairnet. When Gina balked, Laney sent her a disapproving glare. “You want the health department to write me up?”
She complied.
“JoJo, you start the mise en place.” He stared at her blankly. “Ah, for Christ’s sake! Chop and peel the vegetables, get out the spices, set up the ingredients, and put them all”—Gina glanced around until she landed on a steel prep table—“there.”
“You talking about the fixin’s?” He went to the large side-by-side refrigerator and started pulling out an assortment of ingredient bins.
“Yes. Thank you, JoJo.”
He continued to organize and Laney poured fresh peanut oil into the fryers. The front door chimed, signaling that the lunch crowd had begun streaming in.
Time to get busy.
